


Silver lining

by RedgraveQueen



Category: Berena - Fandom, Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedgraveQueen/pseuds/RedgraveQueen
Summary: Serena is suffering following the death of her daughter. Forced into therapy- she meets a like minded individual who turns her world upside down. (au)Please be warned- Serena and Bernie are both suffering from mental health problems in this fic. There will be lots of reference to this along with mentions of self harming behaviour. As always, this is for entertainment purposes and not factual in any way.





	1. Chapter 1

Please be warned- Serena and Bernie are both suffering from mental health problems in this fic. There will be lots of reference to this along with mentions of self harming behaviour. As always, this is for entertainment purposes and not factual in any way. 

 

The laptop hurtles to the ground and smashes, sending glistening shards flying in every direction. Today, for the first time in as long as Serena can remember, she had summoned up enough will power to do something productive. To use her time wisely. And now, the product is in pieces on the kitchen floor. She decides that is a pretty good metaphor for her life. 

She flicks the light switch and appraises her surroundings. She had been raised by incredibly particular parents and therefore had always taken pride in the appearance of her house. Her mother would turn in her grave if she could see the state of it now. The worktops are littered with long since abandoned paperwork- crappy unread magazines and old take away cartons. she just hadn’t yet fathomed the energy to discard them. There is a layer of grime building around the sink sink and she can’t remember the last time the floor had seen a mop. What does it matter? she ponders. She has seldom visitors now. she’d chased her friends away months ago- none of them willing to put up with her constant snapping, rudeness and her tendency to erupt into rage at any given moment. At the time she had been glad- craving to be left alone in solitude with only her thoughts and a constant steam of Shiraz to keep her company. Right now she’d give anything for an adult conversation. Or for a conversation of any kind, with anyone- for that matter. 

She lowers herself onto a kitchen chair, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular. She laughs out loud. Today, life has proven her right. There is literally no point in trying to achieve anything at all. She decides that she’s nothing but a washed up, miserable old drunk. Her life is all but over. 

A long time passes without her really noticing until her eyes finally come to rest on a partially drunk bottle of Shiraz. Her gaze drops to the mess on the floor. She decides to drink first, it will take the edge off if nothing else. One sip is enough to bring the thoughts that she had been trying so desperately to suppress to the forefront of her mind. The prospect of the impending counselling session, scheduled for the next day, is hanging over her like a dark cloud. She’s certain that the whole thing will be just a royal waste of her time. Time that she could spend alone in her hovel, brooding over whether she has enough Shiraz left to carry her through the afternoon. She is quite certain that therapy is not what she requires. You’re meant to be sad when your daughter dies! She’d only agreed to it because it had been imposed on her and she’d been strongly advised that accepting help was essential if she stood any chance of returning to work. Ironic- because the thought of going within a mile of that damned hospital makes her feel physically sick. 

She shakes her head brusquely, slamming the empty bottle of wine onto the draining board. The familiar sensation of red hot anger begins to surge through her body. Just who the fuck do they think they are? Telling me how to live my life?  
At this point- Serena is not sure who exactly it is that she is referring to. 

She drops to her knees, suddenly desperate for a distraction- anything that will take her occupy her brain for a few seconds. She scoops the largest pieces of what was once her trusty old laptop- onto the sticky, cluttered dining table. She hadn’t ‘dined’ here in months. She doesn’t suppose she’s ‘dined’ anywhere for a very long time. Just shovelled easy access food in when her body demanded it. She retrieves a sheet of paper from a pile that is threatening to spill onto the floor. She begins to collect the shards using her hand as a sweeping brush. She doesn’t mind when one digs in so deep that it draws blood, the sharp physical pain focuses her mind and she carries on her task purposefully. Then suddenly, she wants the pain erased and thrusts it under the cold tap until it numbs. 

......................................................................

Serena is thankful that the waiting room is all but empty. It is incredibly stuffy and close and she can feel herself sweating as she takes a seat in the far corner of the room. A young woman sits to her left, rocking a pram absently with her foot. On closer inspection, Serena realises that she’s shaking. Her eyes appear red and swollen. A boy clad in a Nike tracksuit is hunched by the vending machine, scrolling through a smashed up smart phone with one hand, picking at his clothes with the other. Serena has never felt so out of place. She’d known from the beginning this wasn’t right for her. She picks up her Chanel handbag and is all but ready to flounce out when she notices that the room has a new occupant. The woman had entered quietly, barely even making a noise with the door. Inexplicably however, her presence affects Serena... In fact it borderlines on totally over powering her. She realises she’s set her bag back down. She glances over her shoulder. The woman wears and expression of pure thunder- not dissimilar to the one she carries herself. She decides she is of similar age. If you look past the severity of her expression, Serena supposes that she is a very attractive woman. She glances in serena’s direction, obviously conscious of the fact that she’s being watched. 

Smiling at strangers is a notion usually totally lost on Serena but for some reason- she doesn’t feel as if this woman is a stranger. They have common ground after all. They’re both here in this claustrophobic waiting room preparing themselves for a therapy session, feeling lost, perplexed and totally out of place. 

Serena offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile. The woman flashes a quick half smile in her direction before tilting her head forwards slightly, so that her blonde curls hide her expression. Her cheeks colour and Serena looks away- worried that she’s made her feel uncomfortable.


	2. Chapter 2

Bernie walks home quickly, her breath catching and the cold air biting at her chapped lips. She is keen to burn off her lunch of a takeaway sausage roll. Despite never having exceeded a size 8- she has always been conscious of her weight. When she was younger- she would find a great deal of pleasure in exercise. In Running, swimming even going to the gym. She doesn’t find any enjoyment in these activities now. In fact, she struggles to pin point anything that provides anything close to enjoyment. 

She breathes a sigh of relief (tinged with fatigue) as she slips her key into the lock. Solitude at last. Her ground floor flat is unusually tidy. Her therapist had advised her that a tidy home makes for a tidy mind. So she had obliged. It was worth a try. Her mental state hadn’t altered. Her thoughts remained scattered and sparse, hardly joining up to form a complete idea. The tidiness is uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. She kicks a pile of books and they topple onto the floor by her feet. She picks one up and folds herself onto the sofa, bringing her knees up to her chest. Her eyes trace the words but the meaning refuses to be conveyed. She becomes bored quickly and persistent unwelcome thoughts interrupt the flow of the book. She throws it back to the pile in frustration, sending the remote control flying from its perch on the coffee table. It prompts her to attempt a spot of TV viewing. Perhaps that will provide the distraction she craves. The silence of the room is interrupted by the chaos of loud American housewives bickering over spilt champagne. She jabs the buttons angrily. The news. Suddenly her screen is filled with army vehicles. Shouting. Gunshots. 

She feels herself being tossed against the side of the vehicle as it veers off the road. Bodies land on top of her. She can’t pinpoint the source of the excruciating pain. It is everywhere. It is consuming her. There is screaming. Is she screaming? Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Her blood. Shouting. Gunshots. 

She clamps her hands over her ears and snaps her eyes shut. It is a pointless exercise. The noise is coming from inside her head. It can not be shut out- it is a part of her. She runs her hands through her tangled hair almost manically- desperate to occupy them. She forces them into her lap and draws a deep breath. She opens her eyes slowly. 

“This is not happening. I am here. I am at home. I am safe.”

 

She repeats. She feels a fool for talking to herself but as always- she is totally alone. Nobody else is going to talk her down. Sweat beads on her forehead. The room is closing in. She has long since switched the tv off but the noise in her head continues. She knows that she has to do something, ground herself, before she looses control completely. 

 

Think of three things you can see.  
Three things you can hear.  
Gunshots.  
Something you can smell? 

The noise begins to diminish as she observes her surroundings. 

Ok so maybe the therapist isn’t totally useless. 

She stands up slowly as the flashback begins to subside. Her mind is still swimming but she knows she’s regaining composure. She wanders into the kitchen and pours herself a scotch. She swirls it around in her glass before knocking it to the back of her throat. The golden liquid warms her as it travels through her body. She pours another. The sharp, random, thoughts that persecute her constantly throughout her sober hours begin to blur. She is suddenly overwhelmingly tired. She takes the bottle and heads for the stairs. 

She undresses and turns towards the mirror slowly. Of course, nothing has changed. Her slim frame is still covered in scars- varying in size and colour and shape. She runs her finger down the largest one- the one that runs between her breasts. The scar that ended her career. She hates all of them- but this one more than the others. She winces and reaches for the bottle. 

She steps into the shower. The water feels nice against her skin. It’s hot and induces goose pimples. She lifts her face towards the stream and allows it to consume her. Allows it to wash away the traces of the day. For the first time in a while, she craves the touch of someone’s skin. Wet and warm, pressing against her. Kissing her. Touching her. She almost laughs at the idea. Who would want to touch her now? No, she decides. She has no inclination for another human to set eyes on her body ever again. But to be encompassed in someone’s arms? A woman’s arms? 

She steps out of the shower and slams the door shut. By the time she reaches her bedroom she is physically trembling with cold. She wraps herself up in her duvet, not summoning enough motivation to search for Pyjamas. She props herself up on pillow and pours more of the golden liquid into her blood stream- no longer bothering with a glass.

She slides her hand into her bedside table. A packet of sleeping pills. One would do the trick. Although not advised after all of the alcohol she has consumed. She tips one into her hand. Another drops out. Then another. She continues to rattle the bottle. She has a handful now. This will be enough she decides. This will be enough to end it all. To make it stop. She stares into her hand and swallows- desperately trying to moisten her unbearably dry mouth. 

Suddenly and with no apparent trigger- another flashback consumes her. But this one is different. There are no lights. No blood or shouting. No sound of gunshots. Just a woman. Smiling. A beautiful woman, smiling at her. She pours the pills back into the pot. She screws the lid back onto the bottle.


	3. Chapter 3

The therapist cannot save her. She does not understand. Serena has rendered her self quite sure that nobody will ever be able to get their heads around her complexed string of emotions, her behaviours and compulsions. She is totally alone.

Suddenly and through no choice of her own, Her mind is cast back to the scene that previous week in the therapists waiting room. She pictures the blonde woman, entering silently, her gaze firmly fixed on her shoes. She remembers the way she’d blushed when she’d caught her eye. Does she feel totally alone too? Is that why she coloured and looked so stricken? Does she feel so trapped in her own mind that a mere second of interaction with a like minded person- somebody obviously in the same boat stirred her? Overwhelmed her even? Serena snorts. She decides she has finally lost the plot- spending countless hours overthinking and creating a detailed narrative over something as simple as a pair of pink cheeks. Albeit Pink cheeks on an tall, attractive blonde. With strangely enticing dark brown eyes. She wishes she could stop thinking about those eyes. 

This certainly isn’t the first time this week that her mind has lingered on that (what she must admit) was an incredibly pleasant, fleeting moment. Yes, the woman had turned away, but not before she’d offered a smile in return. To Serena that had not been an empty gesture. That had been a moment shared. And in that moment, for whatever crazy reason- the loneliness had ceased to exist. And she so desperately needs to feel that again. That’s the only reason she’s decided to drag herself out of bed and pitch up in front the mirror. She used to take such pride in her appearance, always searching up the latest high-end makeup products, spending countless hours sat in front of a hairdresser or in a nail salon. She fingers her now greying, slightly too- long hair back off her forehead. She reaches for a comb and a can of hair spray and works until her arms ache and she is hot and frustrated. But eventually, after a good five minutes of tilting her head and peering at herself from varying angles- she decides she quite likes the quiff she’s fashioned. She applies some makeup and concludes that perhaps the grey suits her.

....................................................................................................................................

Bernie endeavours to sit still. For some reason- that proves a huge task these days. She crosses her legs, conscious that her constant foot tapping is the only sound in the stiflingly hot waiting room. That and the incessant dripping of the water fountain and the insufferable hum of the vending machine. She hates this place with a passion. It’s much busier this been and she is overcome with the feeling that it is closing in on her. Panic begins to surge in her stomach. It crawls up into her chest, hindering her breathing. She rolls her eyes at herself and vows to pull herself together.

Her stomach lurches again but with a different cause. The woman she’s spent all week trying to forget is in her immediate vicinity once again. For the first time for as long as she can remember she feels a rush of pleasure. Of excitement even. Then she remembers with embarrassment how rude she’d been that previous week, turning away from the woman and refusing to engage with her. She cuts herself some slack, deciding that maybe she’s just forgotten how to interact with other humans in a non- professional sense. She has to admit, it’s never been her strong point. 

The woman is walking towards her. Oh hell. She feels blood rush into her face as the seat beside her becomes occupied. She prays her blush isn’t evident. Wills the woman not to look. She does. It just a fleeting glance but its repeated seconds later. Then again. Bernie decides that she is quite without her rights to steal one for herself. Their eyes meet. A surge of what she can only describe as electricity fires through Bernie’s body. She fights every instinct in her body to turn away and deny herself. This time she will not let fear and misery take over. The woman’s smile is warm and genuine. And infections. 

“Hi... haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Serena utters, not quite knowing how to initiate conversation. Bernie nods- unsure of how to respond. 

“I think so, yes.”

They share a knowing smile, tinged with vague amusement. Bernie has seen straight through the Serena and she knows it.

“It’s bloody boiling I’m here isn’t it?” 

She endeavours small talk then wishes she could take it back. She’s thankful that Bernie doesn’t seem to notice the double entendre. If she does she chooses to ignore it.

“Have you been coming here long?”

Serena asks gently, unable to cope with Bernie’s silence.

“Just a few sessions. It isn’t really my thing. I just didn’t have much choice.”

Her voice is calm and measured. Serena holds the other woman’s gaze, willing her to continue. For some reason she is desperate to find out more about this woman. But she chooses to give no more away and Serena decides that pushing her will not work in her favour. 

“Ditto” 

She says simply, daring to give her arm a (what she hopes is a reassuring) squeeze. Bernie feels goose pimples prickle her skin. Serena’s fingers feel strong yet soft, as they linger on Bernie’s bare forearm. She withdraws them slowly, conscious of the lack of response. What Bernie really wants is to reach out and re-ignite their contact, desperate to feel the burn of their shared touch once again. She decides it’s just not an option, and pushes her hands into her lap.

“Serena Campbell?”

Bernie’s heart sinks. 

“Good luck..”

She says quietly. 

“You too. It’s been lovely to chat to you...? I didn’t catch your name?”

“Bernie. My name is Bernie! Perhaps I’ll see you again next week?” 

She feels her chest tighten at at risk she’s taken, slightly embarrassed at how eager she sounds. 

“I hope so”

The woman begins to walk away but turns back suddenly and reaches into her pocket. She slips a card into Bernie’s palm.

“In the meantime, if you fancy a chat- call me. Or text if you prefer.”

She offers one more smile before turning on her heel. Bernie feels as is she might explode.


	4. Chapter 4

Bernie pulls the card from her pocket as she removes her jeans. She realises that she’s had it clutched in her palm for a good quantity of the afternoon- including the duration of her therapy session. Since her conversation with Serena that morning, Bernie feels that a weight has been lifted. She has lost that overpowering feeling of being totally alone. 

The woman has given her her number. That means that she wants to talk to her? That shes interested in what she has to say? She curses herself for being so self-indulgent but allows herself a smile as she props herself up on a stack of pillows and pulls the duvet over her naked body. She illuminates her phone screen and gazes at the blank background. 

She keys in the numbers before she has chance to change her mind. She opts for ‘create contact’ and hesitates. Today, the beautiful smiling stranger that has been given a name. Serena. Classy and glamorous. It suits her perfectly. 

She’s always hated her own name- Berenice and had chosen to shorten it to ‘Bernie’ from the age of eleven. Her parents didn’t approve but that had been a reoccurring theme throughout her childhood. 

She shakes those thoughts away and turns her attention back to her phone. It suddenly comes to her attention that besides her name, she knows absolutely nothing about this woman. She could be absolutely anyone. Although she enjoys the air of mystery- she craves to acquire more information. Does she have a career? A family? Is she married? She frowns. Her therapist has advised her to push away undesirable thoughts. The thought of Serena cosied up with her husband is not a thought she wants to hold onto. 

She clicks ‘create message’ and draws a deep breath.

“Hi...?” 

No. 

“Hello?” 

She rolls her eyes. She can’t even figure out a greeting, let alone a message. She clears the screen and tries again. 

“Hi. How are you?” 

No. It’s too much of an open question. She barely knows this woman. She has to look for common ground. 

“Hi. How was the session? I hope it went well.   
Bernie.” 

A kiss? No. No kiss. 

Her heart leaps as she presses ‘send’. She feels giddy. Nervous even. Five minutes passes. She remains without response. She slips her phone into the bedside table to prevent her from staring at it like a smitten teenager. 

She lays back. Another ten minutes disappears. She tell herself downheartedly that she’s not going to get a reply. She should have waited a few days at least. She’s made herself look desperate. Though for what she isn’t quite sure. 

The heat is beginning to pulse through her body as the familiar band of pressure begins to build up around her chest. She’s made a fool of herself. Serena probably only have her the card to be polite. Why would anyone desire a conversation with her? She’s boring. She’s miserable. She’s on the edge of loosing her mind completely. 

The silence is disturbed by a buzzing sound. Suddenly, the ceiling is illuminated. One new message. From a certain Serena Campbell.

“Hello! Sorry for the slow reply, my phone has been charging. Session was ok. Still not convinced it’s doing any good. How are you?   
Serena X” 

Bernie feels the happiness pinch at the uppermost points of her cheeks. She wonders how to respond to that question appropriately. She is lying in bed, In the dark, alone. But she’s suddenly having the most lovely evening in as long as she can remember. 

“Fine thank-you. I’m just having a quiet one tonight. It was lovely talking to you today.   
Bernie x” 

Send. 

“I wish we’d had longer to chat. Perhaps you’d like to meet up for coffee sometime?” 

Now, Bernie allows herself a genuine grin. 

Oh yes, she would like to meet Serena for coffee. She would like that very much.


End file.
